Leap Noir
by Grazia D
Summary: Sam Leaps into Joe Varriale, a Los Angeles police detective who may have had a role in the murder of the husband of his object of desire.
1. Chapter 1

He felt the familiar soft tingle of electricity course through his body. The scenery around him slowly began to fade and he was gone. Once again, he was nothing more than a thought, a memory, a soul, or whatever he thought of himself at the moment of the Leap. He went to a place where hours and days meant nothing, where he was left with nothing more than the repeated reminiscences to keep him company until Time, or Space, or Whoever decided which life he was to Leap into next. He wondered if it was just a matter of milliseconds, the duration between his Leaps, or if it lasted for days, months, years even. He would have to remember to ask Al.

Al Calavicci. Retired United States Naval Officer. What Al retired as, he couldn't remember. He heaved a sigh and squeezed his eyes closed. Or, he would have, if he was flesh and blood. But he wasn't. Right now, he was just a memory. That's what he decided he would be this time around. Nothing more than a memory.

The memory of Sam…Sam what? He had received the Nobel Prize and could recall that article in Time magazine where the author proclaimed him as "the next Einstein". He could explain the structural mechanics of nuclear engineering. But he couldn't recall something as simple as his last name.

He stopped and started over once again. After all, he had nothing but time. His name was Sam. He was born August 8, 1954. No, 1953. He had an older brother, Tom, and a younger sister, Katie. He was born in Elk Ridge, Indiana and his last name was…Christ, what was his last name?

Beckett. Samuel John Beckett. He felt a sense of satisfaction rush through him, although it was quickly replaced by a feeling of despair. He wondered if this was all that was left for him. An aura condemned to replay memories of a past that existed long ago as he Leaped from life to life to fix others mistakes when he wasn't even allowed to fix his own.

The familiar feeling returned. He was Leaping into a new body, a new life, and a new problem.

It always took a few moments before he was semi-aware of what was happening around him. But, for some reason, it was his sense of smell that returned to him first. Every time.

The stench was almost nauseating. The heavy smell of decay mixed with wisps of cigarette smoke. He brought a hand to his mouth automatically; covering his nose with the cloth he just realized was gripped tightly in his grasp. Someone was speaking, if it was to him, he hadn't a clue. He still wasn't completely _there._

The scenery in front of him began to come into focus. The room was brightly lit, filled with a few men dressed in suits, a couple of them with lit cigarettes dangling from their lips. If the stench inside the room was bothering them, they didn't let on.

The air was thick and heavy, his own clothes sticking to his body as trickles of sweat rolled down his back. A sound of a flash bulb behind him spun him on his heels, receiving a wary glance from the lanky man as he focused the camera once more. Sam's eyes followed the aim of the lens. His stomach lurched when he noticed the scene in front of him. Another flash, another whirl from the camera. Its lens capturing the image of the man's body sprawled on the thick carpet, the light fibers stained to a dark crimson as it soaked up the blood that had seeped from the slash along the young man's throat. It was obvious the oppressive heat had taken a toll on the body at Sam's feet, its skin was a sickeningly yellow, the exposed skin showing signs of bloat. Hence the smell, Sam thought to himself.

Sam forced himself to breath through his mouth and took a few more seconds to take in what was happening around him. Another quick, but slightly better, glance at the half a dozen men sharing the room with him. He noticed brief glints of metal on their waists, the indoor lights reflecting off the polished gold. Behind him stood a uniformed police officer, dutifully logging who entered and exited what Sam believed was the front door. A brief glace at his own waistline and he found a gold badge pinned to his belt. The extra weight on his right hip told him he was armed as well.

"Christ, Joe, you coulda at least warned me." Sam turned toward the doorway, not really sure if he was 'Joe' or not, but the unexpected baritone voice forced his attention in that direction. "I hate the smell of dead bodies in the summer. And this one's been only dead for maybe two days tops." The owner of the baritone voice stood just under Sam's, or rather his host body's, height, with a rather large pot belly that stood out in severe contrast with the man's thin arms and legs. His graying black hair was slicked back against his scalp. He took a deep drag from the cigarette that he had precariously perched between his lips, blowing the smoke clear from his lungs through his nostrils before giving Sam a slight nudge. He motioned with his head that he wanted Sam to follow as he headed into one of the adjoining rooms, away from the other men who were wrapped up in each of their own individual jobs to give the departing men a second glance. The pot-bellied man led Sam into a kitchen, the sharp smell of bleach assaulting his nostrils, nearly covering the stench of the dead man that may or may not have been lying in his living room for two days, decaying.

"So, that's, uh, that's him, huh?" Sam studied the man next to him for a few seconds, noticing the mischievous glint in his coal black eyes.

"Uh, uh, what?"

"Sidney. Now I know why you got here so damned quick." The mischievous glint disappeared when he recognized the lost look Sam couldn't hide. Obviously, Leaping in at some of the most inopportune moments was a huge cosmic joke on whatever decided where and when he ended up. "Someone's going to have to break it to Vera. And I'm sure you'll want to be her knight in shining armor, so to speak, eh, Joe?"

"Vera?" Sam was utterly confused and he was just too tired to even try and pretend he knew what the hell was going on.

"Vera Thomas. The dead guy's wife. Or have you forgotten? You're pretty smitten with Miss Hollywood herself and I know how much you despised the 'dearly departed' so maybe you forgot she was married?" His tone was mocking, as if he and 'Joe' had been sharing a private joke, and now he had to carefully explain it to 'Joe', who for no reason at all, seemed to be in his own little world. "Hey, Joe, it's alright." the pot-bellied man gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "It's our investigation. It's alright." Another pat and the pot-bellied man headed back into the living room. Sam stood in place, staring at the empty space the pot-bellied man vacated. He felt his stomach tighten again. He ran a hand through his hair, noticing it was cropped close to his head. So far, all he knew was his name was Joe, he was a police officer, and he knew the dead man. Or rather Joe knew the dead man. And the glint in the pot-bellied man's eye told him Joe and the dead man, what did he say his name was? Sidney?, were not on the friendliest of terms. And obviously Joe should be ecstatic Sidney was laying dead in his living room. And maybe Joe had something to do with Sidney lying dead in his living room.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath of air before slowly letting it escape from his lungs.

"Oh, boy."


	2. Chapter 2

"Where is he?"

Al removed the cover from his head and jammed it beneath his armpit as he exited the elevator rushing past Gooshie before he received an answer.

"Los Angeles." the computer programmer answered as he struggled to keep up with the Observer, taking two steps for every one Al made. "It's July 3, 1954. He's Leaped into a Francis Joseph Varriale, a thirty-nine year old police detective." Gooshie stopped, even as Al continued on, his posture perfect, his footfalls strong, as they always were when he was dressed in his dress whites. It had been a long day for everyone, but especially for Admiral Calavicci who had spent the last six hours with local, state, and federal politicians, lobbying for another year of funding for Project Quantum Leap, only to end the day with a stalemate, and a promise to pick up right where they had left off tomorrow, bright and early, eight A.M. But even with all the added stress the day brought, the name Gooshie uttered quickly sank into Al's psyche, and he stopped, his head spinning around so quickly the computer programmer thought he heard the Admiral's spine crack.

"Who?"

"Fran-Francis Varriale." Gooshie stammered, unnerved by the look the Observer was giving him, as if it were somehow Gooshie's fault Sam landed where he did.

"July third?" Al asked. Gooshie nodded. Al sighed and grabbed the handlink from Gooshie's grasp before continuing his determined stride to the Imaging Chamber.

"Good evening, Admiral Calavicci." Ziggy's soft, feminine voice filled the airways, the same superior tone Al swore the computer had, grating on his nerves. Al ignored the Ziggy and continued on into the Imagine Chamber, waiting impatiently as the supercomputer finally got around to changing the reality around him. Within seconds, a break in the soft blue-white light of the Imaging Chamber led him through a "doorway" that led to Sam's present. The swoosh of the Imaging Chamber door closing behind him caught Sam's attention. Azure eyes widened, the familiar glint of confusion, recognition, looking back at him through unfamiliar eyes.

"Al."

"Sam…"

"Al, there is a dead body in that room." Sam hissed, his finger jabbing wildly to the left.

"Sam…"

"There's a dead body in there and I…or 'Joe' rather, may have had something to do with that."

"Sam…"

"Did I-Joe kill him?" Sam ran a hand over the close cropped hair on his head, trying hard to keep his voice low. "Because they think he did." Sam continued to jab at the air but he began pacing, thick brows furrowed in concern. "I mean, I think they think he did. I don't know. Al, what the hell is going on around here? I'm supposed to be a cop."

"Well, if you'll stop and let me get a word in edgewise." Al waved a hand in front of Sam's face, garnering his attention once again.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Sam asked, finally noticing Al was not dressed in his usual flashy attire.

"What, this? Nothing. We just had a little meeting with knuckle-nosed politicians today, that's all."

"What? Why?" Sam asked, a new sense of panic washing over him. He remembered the last time Al showed up dressed in his Naval attire, sans the ever-present cigar, with the forlorn look in his eyes. The last time Project Quantum Leap was nearly shut down, which would have effectively left Sam on his own. The thought made his current troubles vanish in an instant.

"Funding. It's no big deal." Al quickly added with a flippant wave of his hand. "They just like to yank our chains every year." Al's cavalier attitude settled Sam and he let loose the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"So, where am I? What am I here to do?"

"It's July 3, 1954 and you're a Los Angeles police detective." He made a show of studying the blinking handlink, wondering if Sam would remember the name he was about to utter. "You're name is Francis Varriale."

"Francis?" Sam interrupted. "But that guy called me Joe."

"That's right. You, or rather Francis goes by his middle name, Joseph. And that guy you're referring to is probably Joe's partner, Roger Osgood."

"Who's the guy in there?"

"What guy?"

"The dead guy. In there." Sam answered with a motion of his head.

"Oh, that guy." Al glanced down at the handlink once more even though he knew he didn't need to read the words that scrolled across the computer screen. "I can't believe you didn't recognize him, well, wait, yeah I can."

"Well, if you looked at him, there's no real way to recognize him, whoever he is." Sam muttered, swallowing hard at the memory of the blonde haired man lying on the carpet in the next room.

"He's Sidney Thomas, one of Hollywood's best leading men in the 1950's. Ring a bell?" Sam bit his lower lip and shook his head. "Well, that's good." Al mumbled before he realized the impact that statement would have on Sam's already over hyped paranoia.

"What does that mean?" Al's paused, choosing his words carefully, which sent Sam into a new bout of mild hysteria. "I-Joe didn't, did he?"

"Well, that's probably what you're here to change."

"What? I can't change anything. This Sidney Thomas guy is already dead. I know. I saw him with my own eyes." Sam said, gesturing madly toward the door leading into the living room. "And if Joe Varriale killed him, I can't really change that either, now can I?"

"Well, maybe Joe didn't kill him."

"What happened in there, Al?" Al hesitated again but decided it was best to lay it out to Sam, knowing if he didn't, the man before him would never let up."

"Sidney Thomas was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood at the time." Al began, the words leaving his mouth slowly and ponderously. "Detective Joe Varriale was reportedly hired to moonlight as his wife's bodyguard at certain events. Vera Thomas, remember her?" Another clueless look and another shake of the head. "Gorgeous gal. A star in her own right, but not a big as her husband. Worked alongside Marilyn Monroe, Lana Turner, Veronica Lake…oh I always had a crush on Vera Thomas. Those eyes, those legs, that che-"

"Al." Sam scolded, bringing Al back to the present.

"Oh, right, I forgot. You're Mr. Prude. Anyway, tabloids ate up the story surrounding the murder of Sidney Thomas. And the subsequent arrest of Detective Joe Varriale."

"What?"

"Well, people came out of the woodwork to talk about Sidney and Vera Thomas and Joe's infatuation with Vera. Many people believed Joe and Vera were having an affair and Sidney got in the way. So, he killed him."

"But talk isn't evidence, Al."

"This is L.A. in the '50's, Sam. Good dirt on anybody, even if it wasn't exactly truthful ruled everything. Talk can sway a jury's mind." A distressed look crossed Sam's face and Al could only guess what was running through his best friend's mind. "Not to mention this is your apartment." Sam's brow furrowed some more and his jaw dropped.

"What? You mean this guy has been in my apartment for two days and he's just now being discovered?"

"Well, you don't actually live here. Well, not anymore." Al explained. "You used to live here when you were married, but after your divorce six months ago, you moved to West Hollywood."

"Hey, Joe, you taking a break?" Both men jumped when the deep voice echoed from the doorway. The pot-bellied man, Roger, Al had said his name was, poked his head into the kitchen, a pair of sunglasses covering his coal colored eyes. "They're ready to cart Sid's ass outta here. Cap wants us back at the station. You okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

"Good, c'mon. I'll meetcha down at the car." Sam nodded waiting until Roger had disappeared from the doorway before turning back to Al.

"What am I doing here, Al?" Al punched at the handlink and the door to the Imaging Chamber opened once more.

"I don't know, Sam. But I'll find out. Until then, just remember you have the right to remain silent, so if they start to answer any questions, it might be best just to stay silent."

"That shouldn't be too hard." Sam muttered as the Imaging Chamber door slid shut


	3. Chapter 3

The ride to the station was only a twenty minute drive from the apartment. Sam spent most of the time staring out the passenger side window as Roger rambled on about the Dodgers; were they still in Brooklyn, Sam wondered, amazed he could remember that minute detail. He caught a glance of himself in the side mirror. His hair was a dark brown that had just started to recede, his eyes were a pale grey. His nose had been broken several times, leaving a permanent bump in the center that jutted just slightly to the right. He had a strong chin covered with the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow. He figured he stood about 5'10" and weighed around 180 pounds of mostly muscle. Joe Varriale wasn't classically handsome, but he was rather attractive.

As Roger pulled the Chevy along the curb, Sam began to instinctively crack his knuckles, a habit that obviously belonged to Joe.

"God, I hate it when you do that." Roger said, only half-jokingly as he pulled himself from the driver's seat. Sam muttered a half-hearted apology, noticing for the first time the battered and uneven knuckles of Joe's hands. Joe was a fighter, Sam gathered, either professionally or just as an answer to a problem.

Sam followed a few steps behind Roger, nodding uncomfortable hellos to the men who offered a greeting as they passed. Roger led Sam through a door marked 'Homicide' and through the maze of desks, many left empty by the detectives who were either out on calls or taking a little personal time.

The 'Cap' Roger referred to was Captain Douglas O'Dwyer, a man who had spent most of his adult years in the Los Angeles Police Department, rapidly approaching retirement, and it reflected in his demeanor. His thinning grey hair was parted to the left and held in place with a dollop of gel. Green eyes sat deep in his head and flickered with momentary annoyance when his detectives entered his office.

"I've received no less than half a dozen phone calls from the Chief since Thomas' murder went out over the radio." O'Dwyer said, his voice reflecting the strain of the afternoon's stress. He motioned with his hand to close the door, which Sam did. "He's more concerned as to why Sidney Thomas goes missing two days ago, then winds up with his throat cut in your apartment, Joe." Sam opened his mouth to reply, but remembering what Al had said before slipping back into the Imaging Chamber, he remained silent, offering only a shrug. "When was the last time you were at that apartment, Joe?" O'Dwyer continued, his tone light.

"I don't know." Sam answered truthfully.

"He hasn't been back there since Julie kicked him out." Roger piped up quickly, drawing the captain's focus off of Sam. "Julie moved out about two months after that."

"I know that." O'Dwyer shot back, his eyes shifting back to Sam. "But you haven't been back there for any reason?" Sam opened his mouth again, and once again no words came out. He truly had no idea.

"Is he a suspect, Cap?" Roger asked, making it known by the attitude in his voice he found the very idea ridiculous.

"No. But I want to make sure he's ready for that to possibly become an issue." Sam swallowed hard, trying to think if Al had told him how long he had until he-Joe was arrested.

"That's bullshit." Roger muttered.

"It is bullshit." O'Dwyer agreed. "So until I get word from the Chief, the two of you are still on this case. Besides, someone needs to inform Mrs. Thomas of her husband's passing, and I'm sure she'd rather hear it from you." O'Dwyer added, with a pointed look in Sam's direction. Sam shifted uncomfortably under the police captain's gaze.

"C'mon." Roger tugged at Sam's jacket sleeve as he pulled the office door open. Once again, Sam followed behind Roger, keeping his head low to avoid eye contact with anyone they passed. He felt nervous; certain all eyes were on him. For a moment he was angry at Al for leaving him like this, but he knew his resentment was misplaced. If he was to be mad at anyone, it was him. After all, he wouldn't be in this predicament if he had just waited until the Project was complete.

Of course if he had, the Project might have never been. They were ready to pull it even before he got started. He wasn't about to let that happen.

"Hey, what's up with you?" The question pulled Sam from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"You've been acting weird, Joe. Something's on your mind. I was just joshin' ya about killing the poor bastard. I know you better than that." The more Roger spoke, the thicker his native accent became, Long Island dialect if Sam was remembering correctly. "Besides, like you'd be dumb enough to kill someone in your own apartment, right?" Roger nudged him playfully with his elbow, another attempt to make light of the situation, but Sam stared straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts once again.

Roger thankfully fell silent as they slid into the Chevy, the guttural roar of the Bel Air's engine echoing inside Sam's head as Roger pulled away from the curb.

The ride to the sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills took nearly twice as long that to the ride to the station. Sam gawked at the perfectly manicured lawn, the modern architecture of the three story building; well, modern for 1954, anyway. The driveway began about a half a mile from the main entryway and was guarded by a wrought iron gate that remained securely closed until Roger identified himself and the purpose of his visit to a Jamaican accent emanating from a small silver call box. As the car slowly made its way to the front entrance, Sam felt his stomach knot once again. Where was Al? And what the hell was he supposed to do?

Roger's knock at the front door was answered by the owner of the Jamaican accent, a petite dark skinned lady of around fifty dressed in a simple dark blue cotton dress that flattered her dark skin and even though the temperature was hovering around ninety degrees, a snow white shawl draped over her shoulders.

"Detective Varriale." the Jamaican said, a warm smile spreading across her thin lips before she realized the purpose of the visit. "Come on in. Miss Vera is upstairs." the woman continued as she led Roger and Sam into the foyer. The inside of the mansion was just as impressive as the outside, classically yet invitingly decorated. It was obvious Sidney and Vera Thomas were well paid for a job they did very well. "You stay here. I go get Miss Vera." Sam nodded and forced a thin smile before the woman hustled around a corner.

"Wow, Joe." Roger said after letting loose a low whistle. "You weren't kidding when you said Sid was loaded. You must be very good at what you do to sway a woman from this type of money." Sam frowned at the look in Roger's eye and the suggestive tone in his voice, fighting hard to keep neutral look upon his face. So, Joe had bragged to his partner about his relationship with a famous movie star. Well, who wouldn't, right? I wouldn't, Sam reminded himself. No, you wouldn't, but Joe's not you. He's just a working-class guy whose job it was to keep the streets of Los Angeles safe for its citizens. Only, he was too busy leading a woman astray from her husband then killing the man to keep her all to himself.

That was probably how all those tabloids Al mentioned briefly spun the story. He wondered if they vilified Vera Thomas, as well.

Not that Sam cared too much about that at the moment. He was more concerned about what to say when Vera Thomas entered the room. How do you tell a woman her husband is dead? He certainly didn't envy anyone who had to make that type of notification.

The Jamaican woman came into view first, followed closely by a brunette. Sam felt his jaw drop slightly when she caught his gaze. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that. She stood about two inches shorted than the Jamaican woman; Sam would be surprised if she even reached five feet without her heels. She was dressed in a deep red pencil skirt that showed off those legs Al was such a fan of as well as the soft curves of her hips. A black belt around her waist accented just how tiny it was and the soft pearl white silk shirt complimented the womanly shape of her upper body. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and secured with a red scarf that matched her skirt perfectly. If she had it down, Sam imagined it would graze just past her shoulders. But it was the striking almond shaped blue eyes that kept his attention. They were a clear blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer day and stood out against her smooth pale complexion.

Sam didn't realize he was staring until she uncomfortably shifted her gaze to Roger, who was just as caught up in her as he.

"Would you like something to drink?" Vera asked, finally breaking the awkward silence. "Therene just made some lemonade." Sam noticed her faint Chicago land accent and the needy grip she had on Therene's arm. It was immediately apparent Therene was more than a servant for the Thomas household. She was probably the closest person to Vera and her rock. Vera understood the reason of the visit, and needed Therene by her side. Neither man would accept the inviting offer of cool, fresh lemonade.

"Mrs. Thomas," Roger began when it became aware Sam was going to remain silent. "Maybe you would like to have a seat."

"No." Vera answered strongly, visibly trying to steady her nerve as her grip on Therene's arm tightened. "No, thank you, Mr…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Thomas. I'm Sergeant Roger Osgood."

"Sergeant." Vera gave a short nod and a tiny, forced smile. "I would say I am pleased to meet you, but I suspect the reason you are here with Detective Varriale is not exactly a good one."

"No, ma'am." Roger cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Thomas was found murdered this morning." Therene's arm wrapped protectively around Vera's shoulders as a mother would to a child. Vera's posture remained straight, but her azure eyes slowly moistened and her breaths came deep and ragged. "I'm very sorry." Roger repeated.

"Are you certain it's him?" Vera asked, her question directed at Sam. Sam cast a nervous glance at Roger, who stared expectantly back, before shifting his gaze.

"Yes, ma'am." he muttered, distressed by the look in her eyes that told him she wish it were he who had their arm around her. And she looked as if she would fit perfectly into his arms, too. Joe's arms, Sam corrected. Joe's arms. Who may have killed her husband, so don't even start to think like that. What the hell are you doing, anyway?, he scolded.

"Mrs. Thomas, is there anyone you can think of that would want to hurt Mr. Thomas?" Roger was asking as Sam fought his internal battle.

"No." Vera answered with a shake of her head. "Everyone loved Sidney. He's such a brilliant and kind hearted man. I can't think of anybody who would want to harm him."

"Obviously somebody did." Sam jumped at the unexpected sound of Al behind him, causing identical queer looks from the rest of the bodies in the foyer. "What did I tell ya, Sam?" Al sighed wistfully as he circled Vera, the hologram passing effortlessly through Therene, who still had a supportive grasp on her thin shoulders. "A real doll, isn't she? Did you know she was raised in an orphanage in Chicago? She was placed there after her father killed her mother with a .38. Then he turned the gun on himself." Al placed his finger to his temple and "fired" the imaginary gun. "Kablooey. All right in front of her. She was only eight years old, poor thing."

"Detective Varriale, are you alright?" Therene asked, Sam realizing it was the third time she had asked that question. He turned his attention from Al, whose face showed compassion and pity, not the leering, drooling womanizer Sam was used to seeing.

"Where's the bathroom?" He realized all too late he should already know.

"Down the hall." Vera instructed, a sculpted eyebrow raised in inquiry. "Third door on the left."

"Right. I forgot. Excuse me." He ignored the questionable stares and disappeared down the hall, slamming the door shut behind him before leaning his body against the polished oak, releasing a long stream of hot air.

"And, she's Italian." Al continued the conversation as he passed through the door, and Sam, taking a drag of his cigar before gazing thoughtfully at his best friend. "Well, half-Italian. She was born Teresa Vera Torio in Chicago, Illinois, June 12, 1930. Her mother was Irish."

"So that's why you were staring at her like she was a human being instead of some toy." Sam shot back, him irritated tone surprising even him. "You two share the same history." Referring to Al's own time spent in an orphanage and Italian heritage. As well as their hard luck family stories.

"Yeah, maybe." Al admitted. "And that's probably why Vera was so attracted to Joe in the first place. Same background. Your old man used to beat your mom daily as well as little Joey. Then one day, you- little Joey comes home from school to find his mom dead with her throat cut and pops gone. Never found the bastard, either. Little Joey ended up in an orphanage in downtown L.A. Left at age 16, finished school as he lived on the streets and joined the Los Angeles police academy the day he turned 21."

"Then little Joey grows up to be Big Joey and woos a young actress, then kills her husband." Sam finished bitterly.

"Maybe not."

"What do you mean? Did Ziggy come up with something?"

"Well, not on that." Al began, hesitant. "But a few things have changed."

"Like?"

"Well, in the original history, Joe's convicted of Sidney Thomas' murder, and Vera goes on with her life, spending a few more years in Hollywood before retiring to Miami. Only, something changed after your Leap in."

"What is it, Al?" He pressed, silently wishing he could smack some sense into the hologram.

"In three days, you're not only arrested for the murder of Sidney Thomas…you're arrested for the murder of Vera Thomas, as well."


	4. Chapter 4

Al stood outside the Waiting Room, lost in his own thoughts. He had failed to tell Sam Ziggy had told him the probability of Joe Varriale being arrested and sentenced to death for the murders of Sidney and Vera Thomas was 100 percent. None of the scenarios he or Gooshie thought to run through the supercomputer seemed to change the odds. Sam had argued there was no way he was going to murder Vera Thomas, and Al had agreed. This meant someone else had possibly killed Sidney and was after Vera as well. And maybe Joe was the target of a set-up or just an unlucky sap pinned with a bogus murder rap.

Of course, there was only one person to ask.

He had practically begged Dr. Verbeena Beeks, the staff psychiatrist, to allow him time alone with Joe Varriale. And when that didn't work, he just downright pleaded. She was a tough sell, but he argued it was for Sam's benefit. He knew which strings to pull to get her to cave. She finally relented and told him he had ten minutes. Ten minutes and that was it. The less time Joe spent with someone from "the future" the better off he would be. She had started to explain the detriment his exposure to Al could be, but he brushed her off with a wave of his hand, eager to get into the Waiting Room and grill the Los Angeles police detective. He needed to help out his best friend. He could care less about what psychological problems Joe Varriale might have later on in life.

But something had caused him to pause on the other side of that door. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say to the detective when he entered that room. If Joe in fact had a hand in the murder of Sidney, there was no way he was going to talk. But if he didn't, and learned about Vera's impending death, who knew what the man would do exactly. And that's what worried Al the most.

He finally gathered the nerve to enter the room, smiling politely to the man leaning against the only furniture in the room, a mirrored table where Sam's empty body waited for the next soul to enter it. Al saw Sam's image, as did everyone else at Project Quantum Leap, but they immediately recognized the different mannerisms and characteristics that made each person individual the moment Sam's body came "back to life". That immediately lead to a brief let-down, followed by a frantic search through the fabric of time to find out why Sam had Leaped into the newest person so they could help him move on to the next Leap, once again hoping the next Leap would bring Sam Beckett home.

"Who are you?" Joe asked defensively, Sam's arms crossed tightly across his chest, Sam's emerald eyes narrow slits, Sam's mouth twisted into a suspicious frown.

"My name's Al." The emerald eyes swept over Al's loud outfit; today it happened to be a pair of baggy gold silk pants, a bright read and green checkered long sleeve shirt adorned with a skinny gold tie, and a fedora hat perched atop his head. Al expected the next words to flow from "Sam's" mouth would be a remark against the outfit, as it usually did, but instead it was a gruff "Al what?"

"That's doesn't matter, Joe. I just have a few questions for you."

"What are you, Internal Affairs?"

"No."

"But you know my name."

"I know all about you, Joe." A bushy eyebrow rose skeptically.

"Oh, really."

"Really. Like I know you were born in Los Angeles on March 15, 1915 to Edith and Francis Varriale. You're an only child, your father killed your mother when you were seven and he's been on the run ever since. You lived on the streets after running away from an orphanage at the age of 16. You joined the LAPD the day you turned 21. Then, a year later you married Judy Lee Milligan and divorced six months ago after she found out you were cheating on her." Joe bit his lip as Al spoke, his defiant gaze cooling. "But, that's just the basics, right? If you want, I could go into further detail."

"Actually, _Al_, now that you mention it, maybe you can tell me what the hell _this_is all about." Joe hissed, glancing down at his reflection in the mirrored table. Who the hell is this guy?"

"It's complicated, really, and you don't want to hear it. Trust me. You wouldn't believe me even if I told you." Al took a step closer, studying the man across from him before continuing. "Tell me about Sidney Thomas."

"Maybe you can tell me. Last thing I remember is looking down at his dead body, and then I wake up lying on this table. Then some colored lady comes in and tells me not to be worried and I'll be back home shortly." Joe turned his attention back to Al. "So, where am I?"

"About forty some odd years into the future and you've Leaped into the body of Dr. Sam Beckett. And the woman you mentioned is Dr. Verbeena Beeks. She's here for your well-being." Al said matter-of-factly. Joe's jaw dropped slightly.

"She's really a doctor?" Al nodded. "Hmm." Joe seemed rather impressed, considering an African-American doctor wasn't exactly a common-place thing in 1954.

"Now, Sam Beckett happens to be my best friend and he's about to be arrested for the murders of Sidney and Vera Thomas in three days unless you can help me out." No time to beat around the bush. He had only ten minutes and Beeks could kill him later if she wanted to. The quizzical look on Sam's handsomely boyish face vanished and was quickly replaced by a look of horror.

"Vera?" he asked softly, his voice tight. "She's dead?"

"Not yet. And that's why I need your help. I've been honest with you, now it's time to be honest with me."

"Honest about what? Vera's alright, though, right?"

"For now. Did you kill Sidney Thomas?"

"No!" Joe shot back quickly, recoiling at the thought. "No, I didn't. Sidney was an asshole, but I wouldn't have killed him. And sure as hell not in my own goddamned apartment."

"So, that's still your apartment?" Joe nodded.

"Yeah, sometimes I go there when I've been working late and I don't want to make the drive back to my new apartment." Al sensed there was more to the explanation, so he pressed.

"Is that the only reason?" Joe hesitated and shrugged.

"Maybe not." he heaved a deep sigh. "That's where- that's where I met up with-"

"With Vera?" Joe nodded.

"Does anyone else know that?" Joe shook his head. Al knew Verbeena was watching their exchange and more than likely she was ready to break up Al's line of questioning at any moment. He was surprised he had been allowed to go as far as he did. But he was far from through.

"You said Sidney was an asshole. Why?" Joe's jaw set and a flicker of hatred flashed in the emerald eyes, but he remained silent. "Look, it someone else had a motive to kill Sidney, it would help out a lot if you would tell me so I can help out my friend."

"No one would have a motive to kill Sidney." Joe hissed. "He was a perfect gentleman to everyone he met, except to Vera. Everyone loved him. Perfect leading man, thought he deserved everything and he usually got it. But, it wasn't good enough for Sidney, so he'd take out his little disappointments out on Vera. Made the mistake once of letting me see him hit her. He never did it again after that night." Al nodded, understanding completely. "Vera's the most precious little thing I've ever seen in my life." Joe continued, the edge in his voice disappearing and a tiny smile spreading across his lips. "She looks like if you hug her too hard, she'd break right in half, but she's so strong willed and smart. She deserves a lot more than some actor who thinks the world should revolve around him…or a two bit detective, for that matter." The smile was gone and the worried look was once again on his face. "So, Al, if you're looking to me for some help, I'm sorry. The only person who hated Sidney was me. So, if that doesn't help out your friend, I'm sorry." Al chopped down hard on the cigar, his own expression mirroring Joe's.

"What about Vera? Or yourself?" Al asked. "Anyone you could think of that would want to hurt either of you?"

"Not Vera. Like I said, she's the sweetest little doll. And I'm sure there are a lot of people who don't like me. Goes with the job." Once more, Al sensed there was more that what Joe was saying, but this time he stayed quiet, hoping the uneasy silence would force Joe to elaborate. Al didn't realize just how cool the detective could be, and Joe simply stared back, his face expressionless.

"Admiral." Neither Al nor Joe had noticed Verbeena's presence in the room, and her unexpected voice cause both of the men to jump. "Time's up." When the doctor addressed Al by his rank, Joe's eyes widened and his body stiffened involuntarily caused by imbedded military training.

"Admiral?" Joe questioned softly. "You're in the Navy?"

"Used to be. I retired quite a few years ago. I hear you were at Normandy." Al added quietly, remembering pieces of the profile he had read and re-read the moment Ziggy downloaded the information. Joe nodded.

"I volunteered after Pearl Harbor. Then, after Normandy, I decided four years was enough and left. I guess I missed the LAPD." he joked grimly, forcing a lopsided smile on his face. Al recognized the look in Joe's eyes. Private Joe Varriale had landed on Omaha Beach with the 29th Infantry Division on June 6th, 1944. The twenty-nine year old Army private reportedly saved the lives of a half a dozen men by fending off the German forces for nearly three hours until the confusion calmed down and a medic was finally found to treat the severely wounded men. Private Varriale kept his own bullet wound and collapsed lung to himself until the six men he protected were taken from the battlefield. Al liked and respected Joe the moment he read about him, which happened to be over forty years before. He remembered the sensationalism that followed Varriale's arrest in 1954. He couldn't believe decorated Army veteran and Los Angeles police detective could be responsible for the carnage the papers were saying he caused. And he refused to believe it now. If only Joe would work with him, instead of against him. Al felt Joe was holding back, and he probably was. If Verbeena would just give him more time, he would be able to use his military status and the safety of Vera as leverage.

"Admiral." Verbeena repeated, her voice strained.

"Verbeena…" Al shot back, exasperated, his eyes never leaving Joe's face.

"Sir, will you promise me Vera will be safe?" Joe asked, the cold, hard demeanor vanished, replaced by an almost weak, childlike voice; an enlisted pleading for help from a superior.

"I promise."

"Admiral Calavicci!" Verbeena's voice barked. This time, neither man jumped.

"Talk to Vera. She has every file on this case I'm working on. I told her that if anything should happen to me, she should go the press with that. Those files might help you a bit." Al gave the despondent man a genuine smile.

"Thank you."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam had spent the rest of the afternoon at Joe's desk, taking extra effort to keep from making eye contact with anyone other than Roger, for fear they would engage him in actual conversation. When it came time to head home, Sam began to panic. He had no idea where Joe lived and even if he did, he certainly had no idea how to make it there. As luck would have it, however, Roger had given Joe a ride to work that morning, since Joe's Mercury Coupe was in the shop with a reoccurring brake problem. At least, that's what Roger had told Sam after Sam finally worked up the nerve to ask for a ride home, failing to think of a plausible excuse as to why Joe would need one. Roger had seemed to take the odd question in stride, seeing as how his partner had been acting strangely out of character most of the afternoon.

Joe Varriale lived in a one room apartment decorated with just the basics. The couch was threadbare and covered with a thin layer of dust. Yesterday's issue of the Los Angeles Times lay scattered across its cushions. The apartment's walls were bare and the only other room was a small bathroom off to the right of the front door. Suit jackets with coordinating pants were hung neatly from a laundry line stretched from one wall to the next, blocking the view from the rooms only window. Dress shirts were folded and placed atop a three drawer dresser in the corner. The rooms only light source was a table lamp, which wasn't much help in illuminating the apartment when Sam switched it on. He gazed down at the small sheet of black and white photos and nearly half a dozen Polaroid's stacked neatly next to the lamp. The Polaroid's were of Vera, her dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders, sometimes smiling, sometimes striking a sultry pose with an amused glint in her eyes. The strip of photos was of Vera and Joe, obviously enjoying a day out together, matching smiles on each of their faces. Sam laid the photos back on the table, feeling guilty for taking a look into someone else's personal life. He always felt uncomfortable rummaging through someone else's private things. Sometimes, he chose to forgo the search for a peak into his host body's life. After all, they didn't ask to be yanked from their lives and placed into…where did they go again? He couldn't remember. Of course, he didn't really ask to clean up whatever Time, God, or Whatever messed up the first time around.

He sank into the couch, realizing for the first time it doubled as a bed for Joe. A full sized pillow sat atop a folded quilt on the floor next to the couch. Either Joe didn't spend a lot of time in his apartment, or he didn't have enough money left after his divorce to afford much else.

Sam grabbed the front page of the Times and scanned through the headlines. The words failed to make sense because he wasn't really paying attention to anything on the page. He felt as though he should be doing something, anything, besides sitting on his ass reading the newspaper. He was, after all, going to be arrested in three days for murder.

Disgusted, Sam tossed the paper aside and stood, wandering aimlessly toward the refrigerator. Inside he found only a few bottles of beer and a loaf of bread. The day's events quelled his appetite, which was probably a good thing. A piece of bread was hardly a sustaining dinner.

Sam grabbed a beer and settled back on the couch, flipping on the small radio on the floor next to the quilt before trying, and failing, to twist off the bottle cap. Right, no twist off caps, he thought miserably, the prospect of getting back up suddenly daunting. Instead, he used the edge of the couch arm as a makeshift bottle opener, a move that Joe must have done a thousand times, considering the fabric had worn away, revealing the wooden arm underneath. It made it a perfect surface to open the beer bottle.

The bottle cap fell to the carpet without a sound and Sam took a long, well-deserved swig. The liquid slid deliciously down his throat. Halfway through the bottle and without the nuisance of food to slow the absorption of the alcohol into his bloodstream, Sam soon forgot about the interview he had in the morning with two lieutenants Captain O'Dwyer had said were from Internal Affairs. Routine questions, the captain had said, seeing as how Sidney ended up dead in your old apartment.

And seeing as how Joe happened to be sleeping with Sidney's wife, Sam had thought to himself at the time. Did they know? Right now, he really didn't care.

Sam was working on the last of the six beers Joe had left behind in his refrigerator before Al showed up.

"Well, it looks like you're having a good time." Al said, soberly, eyeing the empty bottles at Sam's feet.

"I don't know if 'good time' is the phrase I'd use." Sam answered back, his speech slurred slightly from the effects of the alcohol.

"Well, I hope you haven't decided to sit right here until they come and take you away, Sam." A disapproving eye washed across the tiny apartment. "Looks a lot like my first apartment."

"Did you learn anything new today?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Sam's eyes widened and he sat up at the words. "According to Joe, Vera may hold the answers to the questions surrounding Sidney's death."

"You're not saying she killed him, are you?"

"No. Apparently, Joe's been working on a case off the record. He gave everything he's collected on this case to Vera for safekeeping. It seems someone may be setting you up."

"I have a meeting with Internal Affairs in the morning." Sam muttered as he sank back into the cushions.

"That explains that." Al said, nodding toward the beer in Sam's hand. "Of course, whoever's setting you up evidently knows Joe's serenading Vera."

"I've also been placed on administrative leave." Sam continued, either not hearing what Al was saying or choosing to ignore it.

"Yeah. That happened to the real Joe, too. Now, the first thing you need to do is get a hold of Vera and get those files from her so we can find out who might be setting Joe up so you don't end up on death row and you can Leap." Sam nodded, his eyes closed. "Are you listening, or do you not care?" Al hissed, annoyed with the attitude he was getting from Sam.

"I'm listening and I do care. You think I want to spend the rest of my life here?" Sam shot back. He brought his hands up to his face and pressed his palms against his eyes. "I'm just tired." Sam sighed and leaned forward, steadying his elbows on his knees. "When is Vera supposed to be killed?"

"The night of July fourth. She's found dead in her pool. She was beaten severely, according to the autopsy report and a blow to her head might have knocked her out. She ultimately drowned when whoever beat her threw her into the pool."

"So someone knows she might have Joe's files."

"They might not right now. Which means you should watch what you say in that interview tomorrow and not say a word to anyone afterward." Sam nodded, but he looked lost in thought. A few moments later, he stood and grabbed the tweed suit jacket he shed the moment he walked into the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Vera's." he answered matter-of-factly.

"You're not driving there, are you?"

"No. I'll get a cab." Al's head bobbed approvingly. Sam gave the hologram a small smile as he exited the apartment, closing the door softly behind him. The sun had set hours ago, yet the night air was still warm and sticky with humidity, precursor of an approaching storm. He body felt hot beneath the tweed jacket, the alcohol in his system intensifying the sensation. His cheeks flushed when he thought about the real reason he wanted to see Vera and he angrily shook the thought from his head. What was he? Sixteen? Did he really just blush at the thought of being with a woman?

No, he blushed from embarrassment at the thoughts he had circulating around his head the moment he laid eyes on Vera. He wished he could remember anything about Vera Thomas; the movies she was in, more on the brief background Al had given him. Maybe it would give him something to talk about with her, because he wasn't going to act on the feelings he had. She was in love, or maybe just lust, with Joe. He may look like Joe Varriale, he may sound like Joe Varriale, but he wasn't Joe Varriale. And he wouldn't sleep with her. He just wanted to ask her about Joe's files. And keep an eye on her.

At least that's what he kept telling himself as he flagged down a cab.


End file.
